The Angel's Acolyte
by Max Shockley
Summary: Set three months after we last saw Max Shockley. A new character is thrown into our midst. Who is this women, Angela Crosswright? Is she a mortal angel? A long lost memory? Or something else? Only time will tell...
1. Part 1: The New Order of God

_**Let The Light Of God Purge The Darkness!**_

* * *

I remember it being dark.

The sounds of screams, gunshots and the ungodly roars of the sickening abominations that stalk the night.

His hand is wrapped around mine, his body pulling mine forward as we struggle to escape from the sadistic bandits that raided our once peaceful camp.

We were nearly at the escape convoy, the darkness enveloping us, seeking to drag us down.

My heart was pounding in my ears, my breath was coming up short in raged gasps as we charged up the hill towards our salvation.

But then the worst happened: He was tackled and dragged down by one of those creatures. Its skin hanging off its body in flaps, its arms ripped free of a torn straight jacket and buckled restrains wrapped around its torso. He fell to the ground, my hand ripped out of his, the abomination clawing and beating at his face and arms, his scream saying: "Just Go! I'll make it up there soon!"

I hesitated, just for a moment, not wanting to leave him for one moment. But I turned and continued to run towards sanctuary: I trust him, I know he will make it.

I finally reach the convoy, my hand wrapping around the handle of an old, beaten down pickup truck. I yank open the door, about to dive inside and take up one of the weapons placed inside. But something grabs me by the waist and tears me away from safety, dragging me deeper into the darkness of the night. I try to scream, try to yell for someone to help, but the demon that had seized me cut of my scream with a fist smashing into my temple.

I remember coming to, my body bound by chains, a wad of cloth jammed in my throat. I was laying immobile underneath a bush, watching in horror as He found out I was missing. He shouted again and again, my name shrieked across the shadowed mountains, the pain in his voice all too obvious to hear.

Soon the other survivors of the group came, supplies packed in bundles on their backs, vehicles starting out as the approaching horde came into sight.

He eventually had to be forcibly thrown into one of the trucks, several of the others trying to keep him from charging back out to find me. They all drove off, his screams fading off into the distance, tears welling up in my eyes as the sudden realization that I would never see Him again struck me.

The Monster reappeared, blood running in rivulets down his tattered clothing. Twisted and perverse thoughts portrayed in every movement as he strode towards me.

I wake up, a cold sweat running down my neck and forehead, my hand darting to my neck to grasp at the comforting crucifix that dangled down from it. I sigh as my shakes and tremors of my dream and my past subside. I'm fine. The devil cannot harm one of God's chosen.

I get up from the cot, the wooden spars that make up the frame squeaking and whining as my weight shifts from it. The room that I have lived in for the past two years is just as sparse as the day I moved in. There is a cot placed against one wall, a thin sheet and a deflated pillow laid on top of it. Against the opposite wall is a plywood dresser, a washbasin sitting on top of it. Set into the far wall there is a large crucifix, the body of Our Savior carve into the oak wood of the cross.

I move to the dresser, splashing the water in the basin onto my face, the coolness of the water driving away the rest of the darkness from the dream. I pick up my glasses that are resting beside the basin and I put them on, the fuzziness of my vision clearing up as the lenses are set in front of my eyes. I frown to myself: 'Why can't I think of that man's name…I wish I knew his name…'

I shake my head dispelling the thought. We disciples of the New Order of God are never allowed to form any bonds with anyone outside of the Order, no matter how superficial or insignificant. Our only bond is with God, blessed and hollowed his name.

I kneel down in front of the crucifix, falling into the routine of saying the Morning Prayer. The written word of the prayer is hanging over the doorway, but I know the short conversation with God by heart:

 _"Blessed be this day, My Lord and Savior."_

 _"Blessed be our duty to dispel the heathen that lives among us all."_

 _"Blessed be our Brothers and Sisters that purge the Wicked."_

 _"We of the Order guide the light into the darkness of all mortal man's souls"_

 _"We of the Order slay the heathen that lives in the darkness and has darkness in his soul, no matter how small the amount."_

 _"It is Our duty to follow you, until death and ever then sum in your service."_

 _"Guide me, Angela Crosswright, along your path of unblemished and absolute light."_

 _"Protect me in this day as I hunt the demons within mortal man's soul as well as my own."_

 _"In this I say in thy name, guide me and protect me, unto your name always, Heavenly Father. Amen."_

 _I get up from the ground, signing the cross in the air, my covenanted with the Lord renewed: 'It's time to see Hezekiah, I am sure that he has a mission to partake of on this heavenly crusade of Ours.'_

I move back to the dresser, pulling out one of the drawers, the plywood screeching as it rubs against its housing. I take out one of my 3 pairs of clothes, each of them identical to one another, and put it on, the folds of the robes hiding my slender frame.

I walk towards the door of my 50 square foot room, the cramp quarters making me feel slightly claustrophobic. I step through the door, only to be greeted by a piercing scream of pain and fear. I run towards the banister leaning over to look into the courtyard three stories below.

On the cobble stones below a man is being dragged towards the stake set up in the middle of the courtyard by two of the Monastery Priests. The man continues to scream, his fingers grasping at the cracks in the stones, attempting to delay the evitable. One of the Brothers steps forward, driving the butt of his rifle into the man's side, the man gasping pain from the blow. The Priest hoists the man up onto the stake, binding him tightly to the wooden trunk with thick coils of rope.

The man screams in desperation: "What did I do? What have I done to wrong God?"

The Brother steps forward, the Priests tossing bungles of small sticks and brush at the base of the stake, pouring gasoline on the tender as they do so. The Brother says: "You have been found guilty in the eyes of the Lord. You have been caught having frivolous intercourse with a woman that you have not been wed to. May the flames of the lord purge your wicked soul and may Christ above have mercy on your soiled soul."

The Brother reaches inside his robes and pulls out a box of matches, the man screaming as the match is struck into flame: "That was my fiancé, God Damn you! You said that we would be wed this morning!"

The Brother glances up to the man, dropping the match on the gas soaked tender, saying as the flames leap up about the stake: "Time is absolute in God's eyes. You were not married at the occurrence of the action. So both you and she shall perish by Hellfire and Brimstone."

I sprint down the hall, wanting to block out the screams of the man. I know he did nothing wrong, nor did his love…but the teachings of God are absolute; no deviation from The Path of Righteousness, no matter how small, goes unpunished.

* * *

Eventually I made it to the High Chapel, the great oak doors barring the way to anyone that is not summoned. I step to the doors, the oak slabs swinging inwards, silently on steel hinges. On the other side of the door I see the two that have opened it- Robed adepts of the High Priesthood. As I enter the room I walk to a basin filled with water that is sitting just a few meters from the door. I dip my fingers in my hands and I draw the haloed cross touching the bridge of my nose and both shoulders. I move forward a few more steps and I kneel down in between the pews, waiting for The High Priest Hezekiah Kohen to arrive and give me a mission to carry out.

Not thirty seconds after I kneel down to the ground, in a flash of bright light, Hezekiah appears at the pulpit, his white robes billowing out from around him as if he had gotten there though a wind tunnel. He walks down from the pulpit saying: "Rise, Sister, God permits you to stand under His and my presence."

I rise to my feet, resisting the urge to dust of my shins and knees. I look up at Hezekiah's face, no less shocked at his appearance than I was the first time I saw it. His face is scared in multiple places, each scar looking like it was make by a shallow cut with a razor blade. On his face a goatee of grey hear clings around his mouth. Above his head, circling in a shallow orbit is The Fragment, a tiny piece of Jebus' Halo roughly the size of a bottle cap. His head is bald, shaved nearly every day by his Adepts. The only feature on his barren head is a large scar, circling the top of his head, matching the orbit of The Fragment. I suspect that the scar was made by Hezekiah's own hand, possibly with a large knife, but only God knows for sure.

Hezekiah gestures towards the light shining through a stained glass window depicting The Crucifixion, saying: "Isn't today a blessed day to be alive, Sister?"

I nod and says: "In the eyes of the Lord every day should be a blessed day, Father Hezekiah."

Hezekiah laughs: "Indeed, Sister Crosswright, each day is a blessed day because the Load governs over each and every one. Yet the wicked still overrun the world. Why do you think that is, Sister Crosswright?"

'This is so dull…he just repeats himself, on every nightly sermon and on every Sunday service. The same thing, day in and day out.' I say to him: "Because God is busy. He has a plan that he must work on above all else. It is our duty to drive out the Wicked in his stead."

Hezekiah nods and says: "Very good, Sister, and drive out the wicked we shall. You have an assignment in the stead of the Angels, Sister Crosswright. Some civilians that live under out jurisdiction have yet to pay their weekly tithe. Go there and observe them. See if they have the truthful soul to pay the Lord's Tithe. If not, then they have been tainted by The Adversary and they must be purged."

I bow to Hezekiah: "Yes, Father Hezekiah: The Lord's will be done by my hand."

I turn around and walk out of The High Chapel, the enormous oak doors closing behind me, driven by the High Adepts.

* * *

I head for the Armory, my fellow Brothers and Sisters training in the courtyard next to me. Today they seem to be doing unarmed attack drills, focusing on taking down a man with only their bare hands. Luckily I am in a high enough standing to be sent on missions instead of working in meaningless drill lines. The Armory is a well-protected room, The White Silence keeping guard over the steel doors.

They don't say a word, hence their name, but they are formidable fighters, chosen by the Angles to carry their robes and fighting techniques.

Just like their name sake, they don't say a word as I walk past them, opening the doors to the armory, but I can feel their eyes searching my every move for the slightest notion of ill intent. But they remain stationary, guarding the doors to the weapons from the Heavens. It seems that they stare me down more than anyone else; whenever I walk to or by the armory their heads instantly swivel and maintain an unblinking gaze on me, like they are trying to peer deep into my soul. Maybe it is because of my hair; given how long it is and its unusual color of deep Violet, hardly something you would expect someone like me to have in a place like this. But who knows what goes through their minds and even if they felt like speaking their minds their Code to the Lord prevents them from speaking it. Those thoughts disappear as the door closes behind me, silent on its steel hinges.

The room is completely white, the floor, the walls and the ceiling painted to look like you were just floating though empty space. Overhead dozens of bright florescent lights poured out even more white light, making the room almost blinding in nature. Across the large room a vestige of color stands out from the glaring room, a small desk, with a man in a cassock sitting behind it. He looks up from the scripture he was reading, adjusting his thin glasses as he does so. He smiles, the scar running across his face stretching with the expression. He stands up and says with a vague Irish accent in his voice: "Ah, well. If it isn't Sister Crosswright. I dare say it hasn't been much more than a day since you've been in here. What has Father Hezekiah got for ya this time?"

I smile at the old Irishman, he is one of the few people that seems to have a personality around here. Of course most people aren't really able to show much of themselves, Father Sanderson, however, doesn't really seem to care much about the unity of purpose that we follow. Nobody can really do anything about his habits and humor, being that he is our most powerful fighter, next to Father Hezekiah himself and also because he is the only one that can access the armory without being killed.

The thought of that event brings a shudder to my frame: the man that Sanderson pulled out of there was barely whole, the gashes and ripped muscle barely recognizable as a man. Father Sanderson just smiled when he drug the man into the courtyard and said: "This is what happens when you enter the Armory. Stay out if ya wish to live as whole being for longer than a minute."

But that was the past: "Father Hezekiah wants me to checkup on a family that resides under our parish. He tells me that they have yet to pay their weekly tithe."

Sanderson frowns greatly for the quickest moment, but as soon as the moment was gone I was wondering if I even saw anything other than a smile on his face. He says: "So t'will be the usual weapons for ya? Just give me a moment and I shall be back with 'em."

Father Sanderson turns on his heel and walks to a pair of doors hung behind the desk. He pushes open the doors, the sounds of his footsteps descending down the stone steps through the white washed doors, the sound of a whistled Irish jaunty tone drifting up, fading and disappearing all together has he delves deep into the depths of the Hallowed Armory.

It seems that Sanderson is the only one that can ever enter the Armory without provoking whatever creature or entity that lives down there. I'm pretty sure that Father Hezekiah could make it through there without a scratch, but with how confidently Father Sanderson strolls though those doors makes me wonder how much I really know about this place.

Soon Father Sanderson rises up from the depths of the armory, his whistling replaced by the steady tap of his shoes on the stone stairs. Sanderson pushes though the doors yet again, the double doors closing back on themselves as soon as Sanderson clears them. I take a quick look past the doors, trying to get any sort of information on what might lie below. But as soon as the doors close all I see is darkness and the stone passageway that leads down into it.

Father Sanderson places the weapons and their respective ammunition on the desk, naming off each weapon and its aspects as he puts it on the varnished surface of the desk, just like he always does:

"OSV-96: Russian Sniper Rifle, Fires a 12.7mm by 108 mm cartridge. Range up to 1800 meters for engaging infantry, 2500 for material targets. Stock Telescopic scope and standard iron sights. 5 round box magazine. Modifications: Longer barrel than stock weapon, hand manufactured before Rapture for a wealthy stock broker for the use of being a conversation piece. Barrel is plus four centimeters in length. Muzzle break attached to end of barrel to ensure you don't break your shoulder when you fire it. In a few words: Accurate, Robust and Reliable. Uses: Long range confrontation and first strike raiding actions, armor piercing and anti-material capabilities."

Sanderson pulls out a small pouch and places it on the table: "One extra magazine provided along with 30 additional 12.7mm full metal jacketed rounds."

Along with the extra ammunition he places a handgun on the table: "AMT AutoMag V: American made handgun, fires fifty caliber Action Express rounds. 7 rounds per magazine, 3 addition magazines provided. Stock everything, standard ammunition. White paint to prevent rust and to show our standard to the Heavens."

Father Sanderson comes to his last item, a long-sword, bound in a light colored leather sheath. He grabs the hilt of the weapon and pulls it from its covering, the blade a glistening pure white color, its edge smooth, straight and sharper than any other blade in the armory. Sanderson eyes the blade with a touch of uncharacteristic envy and an understandable amount of awe as the blade slides free from its sheath: "Michael's Sword, a mortal relic version of one of The Weapons of Christ, made by Father Hezekiah himself under the guidance of Angels, given to you to pioneer a new generation of saints under your wings and guidance."

I smile weakly, trying to hide the touch of color that rose to my cheeks. I wave off his explanation as to why I was given such a powerful relic: "I'm sure that is not the reason, Father, It's only because I am good with a sword and had a touch of luck on my side."

Sanderson chuckles, saying as he slides the sword back in its sheath, placing it on the table: "Your modesty on proves my point. Most people here consider you an angel in mortal flesh. Your prowess in battle and your concrete sense of righteousness has given them this view of you."

I step to the desk, taking the sword, fastening the hallowed blade to a belt at my waist, the AutoMag V in my robes and the Russian Great Rifle strapped across my back. I ask: "I doubt that. I'm just serving The Order. Nothing more to it, Father."

Father Sanderson lowers his voice, saying with a hand held up beside of his mouth, shielding his words from the invisible man next to him: "And that's not all. From the whispering that I hear every now and then it is partly because of your beauty. A lot of people say it's…Angelic."

The memories of so long ago in my mind and I can't help but wince at them…yeah...angelic…But I recover quickly and I say: "I'm sure they don't say that. We all swore an oath to have service only to the Lord and no other being."

Sanderson laughs: "Fine, say what you will; but men will be men, women will be women no matter what organization they are sworn too."

Sanderson's happy expression drops and he says seriously: "Remember that, Sister: No matter who someone is allied with their actions are independent from the actions of their allies ALL people hate, all people have fear and sadness. But more importantly, all people want love and happiness in some form or another."

Sanderson's brow furrows in anger and he says shortly: "Go on with your mission. I won't take any more of ya time."

I hesitate for a moment, what was he saying.

He sits town angrily, slamming the scripter closed, the wafer thin pages smashing together and crinkling: "Just go! I have work to do!" He half shouted.

After that I hurriedly darted out of the room, the soldiers of The White Silence looking off after me, curious as to what made me run out of the room. I will just do my mission. Its best to forget what he said: how can we trust those heathens outside of Our Order?

* * *

The family's home resides on the very edge of town, sitting on the outside of a forested bluff. I look for any sign of moment though my scope, peering out from my perch on table in a room on the 13th floor of some law firm building; the soulless predators that once resided now gone. The only words attesting to their names are on the front of the building in great gold letters: "Heart and Soul Law Firm."

The building is roughly 750 meters away from the house, my scope already adjusted for the distance and this surprisingly calm day left me with no adjustment for wind. From the height I am sitting at the bullet is not going to drop as much as it would on level ground, my distance attuned for this detail as well.

Over the first fifteen minutes of observing the house I could see no movement, save for the occasional Undead Demon wandering by the building's barricaded windows. Eventually the door opened and a man cautiously steps out into the open, a crowbar held in his hands, my crosshairs instantly sighted in on his chest. He looks around the building, stepping a few more meters away from the safety of his home, checking for any sigh of the demonic Flesh Eaters. He looks back and says something back at the house, a women with a small child clutched to her chest emerging a moment later. After her a young child, roughly 14 years of age comes out of the house, dragging a sizable cart loaded down with bundles and blankets.

The four of them gather together into a small group and start heading into the city towards The Monastery. It seems that they are giving a little extra this time to pay for their tardiness and possibly to pay their tithe for the next week or two. Although it is a bit odd that the women is taking her child with them. Then again it is probably best to travel in a group in this city with no one, no matter how young or old, left behind.

I set down the rifle, grateful to of not of fired it not even one time. I pull out a radio that I had grabbed before I left the monastery and I say into the device: "Holy Ghost, are you there?"

The radio crackles and buzzes, feedback bursting from the speaker as a gravelly voice comes over the line: "This is Holy Ghost: what do you have to report?"

I reply: "The family is heading over to the Monastery, a large tithe in tow. They should be there in a little over two hours at the pace they are going."

The voice crackles over the radio yet again: "Much obliged, Sister Crosswright. May the Lord see your safe passage home."

I think to myself for a few moments, not really wanting to go back to that stuffy building. Finally I hit the call button again, saying: "One more thing Holy Ghost: I saw a small bandit group sifting through the rubble from my overwatch point. I am going to see what they are up to and purge them if the Lord wills it."

Holy Ghost crackles back over the line: "So be it. I'll be sure to let Father Hezekiah know of this new turn of events."

"Thank you very much. Holy Ghost. Have a blessed day." I said back.

My only reply was the radio shutting off with a sharp click, the screen showing the frequency number flashing off at the same instance.

Perfect…the next few hours I have to myself now. I smiled with glee as I walked from the dusty room: even though my devotion is stronger than steel, this small feeling of freedom magical to me. I'm sure that the Heavenly Father will let slide this one White Lie. After all, even saints need some time away from their duties. I smile and I think to myself: 'This is going to be a great day off.'

* * *

Roughly a kilometer away from that soulless building is a small run down three story apartment building. The windows and doors at the very bottom level are smashed in, the glass and wooden splinters that remained from them scattered all over the bottom floor. The building is in what would have been the slums of the city, lying underneath some huge overpass that cuts across this corner of this city, throwing this neighborhood into eternal shadow.

I step underneath the shadow of this gargantuan structure, glad to be out from under the oppressive heat of the sunless, blood red sky. This building is the one that I stayed in before I joined The Heavenly Order, the majority of my old possessions sitting on the very top floor. I walk into the rundown building, my AutoMag drawn, listening for any noises that might belong to a squatters or a Flesh Eater. Fortunately the only signs of either are a pair of socks nailed to the wall for whatever reason and a slight trail of blood leading out of one of the windows.

I head up the stairs, pushing past the second floor and up to the third and final floor, arriving at a door locked shut by a burglary cage. To the right of the door is a shallow hole in the wall, something that everyone would expect to find in a rundown apartment building such as this. I reach into the hole, worming my hand down the wall until I feel the cool steal of a steel lock box. But what most people don't realize is that even a hole is more than it seems.

I take the lock box out of the wall, spinning the combination dial and popping open its lid and take out the small silver key. A few moments later I was back inside my home; my true home.

I close the door behind me, a sigh bursting from my lips, my shoulders sagging in relief of finally being somewhere that I feel free to be in. After placing my rifle in the small closet next to the door I just closed, I walk into one of the other rooms.

The room was once a bedroom, probably lived in by some guy who was just barely scraping by on some minimum wage job and whatever kindness that he could find. I wonder what had ever happened to him. Did he die in the mass panic that claimed so many lives over five years ago? Is he still alive somewhere in the wilderness? Living as he did then, facing ever greater consequences if he were to fail? I don't know why…but I just wonder…

But there is only so much that one person can know. As of now the room is mine and mine alone, a small yet comfortable bed nestled in the corner of the room and a small, squat table set next to the bed, a large, bulky duffle bag resting on top of the near insignificant table.

I unbuckle my sword, resting it gently against the wall beside the table, taking care to balance the weapon so it wouldn't fall to the floor.

I step to the table, unzipping the bag full of my old belongings. Inside are a few changes of clothes, a couple of books, a huge folder full of roadmaps that helped me find my way here, a small switchblade and an old and empty Glock 18. But the most important items, the ones that a value so much more than my covenant and life itself: An old CD player and a 50 slot CD case.

I take out the CD play, flicking the switch, the device humming slightly as it turned on. I sit down on the bed, placing the player beside me. I take out the CD case, flicking though the plastic sheets, reading though the titles for something that jumped out at me to listen to.

Most of the CD's were from older bands, like 'Lead Blimps', 'Sliding Pebbles', 'Putrid', 'Program Of An Up', but none of the titles really jumped out at me. I flipped to the back of the case, where my most percious CD's were kept safe; finally something jumped out at me: the album 'Pin Points and Gin Joints' by 'The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.' They were a band from Boston, a little known band, but all of their songs were just so amazing to listen to.

I pop the disk into the CD player, the rotor inside of the small machine accelerating and whirling as it read the disk. There is one song I have to listen to first, I press the skip button a few times, an action that I've done so many times before to get to this one song. Soon the song 'I Wrote It' starts playing over the tiny speakers, Dicky Barrett singing after the opening instrumental. I smile to myself, my eyes sliding closed as I lay down on the bed. This is definitely my favorite song…mostly because it reminds me of Him. After all, he showed me this band and all of these CD's were his in the first place…I hope I find him someday, if not just to be with him again, to just give back the music that has gotten me though the darkest of times.

The lyrics was over me, the happiness of the past washing over me:

 _'I wrote it with a golf pencil I pulled out of my blazer,_

 _A crest sewn on the chest read: "Old Gold Rugby Football Club."_

 _Worn at one time by a man, that at one time went to Yale._

 _Then he worked a while on Wall Street, 'til the market collapsed._

 _I was in a barroom that was somewhere on the southern shore of Boston._

 _The tender of the bar poured me a whiskey on the house._

 _I have a love for whiskey, I chased it with a beer._

 _I have a love for Boston and I loved writing it there._

 _I wrote it in a notebook that somebody let me borrow:_

 _"Don't use all the paper please and if you could bring it back to me tomorrow."_

 _It was a fair request and I was grateful for the loan._

 _I had to jot a thought down that I came up with on my own._

 _I wrote it in October and I mention that because,_

 _Out of all the months there are I've always liked that one the best._

 _I don't know why I bring this up but there are times I wonder what_

 _had ever happened to that man, I wonder, after the collapse._

 _I wrote it in a notebook that somebody let me borrow:_

 _"Don't use all the paper please and if you could bring it back to me tomorrow."_

 _It was a fair request and I was grateful for the loan._

 _I had to jot a thought down that I came up with on my own._

 _I wrote, I wrote it for you..._

 _I wrote, I wrote it for you..._

 _I wrote, I wrote it for you..._

 _I wrote, I wrote it for you..._

 _I wrote it in an hour so, so really not much longer._

 _I put the pencil in the shot glass and I buttoned up my blazer._

 _I stepped out of the bar in to the cold October sun._

 _I must return the notebook, it's not important what I wrote...'_

I sit up, sadly pushing the pause button as it switches to the next song. I wish I knew where he was…I would abandon the order in a heartbeat if I just knew…His writings I loved to read, his smile I loved to see and his laugh I loved to hear. I know it is impossible…but he has to be alive. Until I find him, I will always believe that he is alive!

I am about to press the play button when my radio starts buzzing, Holy Ghost trying to contact me. I groan in frustration, what in the name of Saint Peter do they have for me to do? I calm down and I pick up the radio, asking: "This is Sister Angela. Is something wrong?"

Holy Ghost responds: "Yes, something very wrong indeed. The family that was supposedly on the way here to pay their tithe has changed course. Father Hezekiah has had a premonition: they are being lead to AAHW Compound Zeta by a man in a cloak. The man also wears the symbols of an Agent, a dark black suit and black shades. But this man is different from the others. He is strong, powerful and more over wickedly evil. Hezekiah himself said that he has felt very few entities of this corrupt persuasion and he has to be dealt with immediately!"

I ask: "Does he want me to go out there and deal with him? If this man is as powerful and evil as he says he is wouldn't it be better for either him or Father Sanderson to take him out? I feel that I am a bit out of my league dealing with someone as evil as he says he is."

Holy Ghost exchanges a quick word with someone else and relays back to me: "Father Hezekiah sees this as a test for you. He believes that your powers are much better put to use on a man of this caliber. Don't worry, Darkness can never overcome the light of the Holy Order. You will conquer this Demonic Personage."

I nod, half regretting to be called away from my 'happy place.' I reply: "Thank you Holy Ghost. May God see your safety and my safety as he always does."

Holy Ghost grunts: "As he always does, Sister. As he always shall."

I stand up from my bed, grabbing for my sword. I unbind the blade, the weapon seeming to give off light in the dim space. "As he always shall…but the Lord cannot save all. We have battles we must face on our own. The Lord's power is not absolute, outside of the following minds of his disciples…But fight I will…It is only way that I can find Him. It is the only way for me to find My Love."

I stalk towards the door, grabbing my rifle as I leave, locking my sanctuary up behind me. It is time to work for the lord, soon I will be back here to reminisce in the man I hope to find. Someday…

* * *

 **Authors Note:**

First and foremost: I OWN NONE OF THE LYRICS OR TITLES OR ANY COPYRIGHTED ASPECTS THAT I USED ABOVE! They are simply a means to covey the story and emotion of those inside of it. All rights go to The Mighty Mighty Bosstones and any other bands that I mentioned (As you can tell I flubbed all of the names except for The Bosstones, but this way I am playing it safe.)

Thanks to GameZone and A Random Bystander from the M:PN2 forums for giving me the name 'Hezekiah Kohen'

A thank you to S070 from the M:PN2 as well for helping me write a part that I left out by accident.

A thank you to any readers and supporters of the story. Hope you've enjoyed it!

(PS: Please Write A Review!)


	2. Part Two: Who Is This Man Of Shadow?

**Who Is This Man Of Shadow?**

* * *

The only way to get to Compound Zeta is to take one of the ramps onto the overpass and head along until you get to the next exit, Exit N-37. But considering this man is leading a slow and most probably weak group it is going to take them a while to reach the ramp that gets onto the overpass, if I hurry I can make it over there and set up for a clear shot before they get there.

I take off running down the street of the abandoned slums, the Evil Dead rising up from the alleyways, lunging at me to drag me down to the depths of hell. But I continue running, I have to confront this monstrosity, I have to stop him before he corrupts those innocent people. I unsheathe my sword, continuing at my breakneck pace, slashing though any Demon that dares to step into my path. I have to make it! It is the will of God!

* * *

Ten solid minutes of running later I made it to a the top of a small burned out building, part of the wall facing the road collapsed exposing the interior of the building, giving me a wide field of vision for my target. The only downside to this position is that it is less than one-hundred and fifty meters from the road, meaning that in trade for not needing to adjust my scope The Man that I am to be shooting at can reach me just as easily.

I settle and wait, looking down the road, waiting to see The Man in the dark cloak. I did not have that long to wait, 15 minutes later I could see movement down the street, the shuffling of multiple figures as they progressed down the abandoned road. I lifted up my rifle, my scope giving me all the details I needed. The man in the cloak was leading the small family along, a large black scythe held in hand, the whole weapon dark as Satan's black heart. The whole weapon, even from this distance, radiated, pain fear and shadow. Yet at the same time it was a familiar feeling, one that I felt oddly comfortable with…no matter, soon the weapon shall be locked in the Armory, never to see the light of day again.

I wait, the figures in the distance drawing closer to my firing zone. All I need to do is pull off one shot and I will be able to abolish this dark entity. But something peculiar happens before they make it into the kill zone that I had set up. The man that is pulling the cart stumbles, his footing misplaced by a pothole in the road. The man recovers and continues on, but the Cloaked Fiend steps in front of the man making him stop. Fearing the worse I sight in on this Cloaked Man, my crosshairs set right in the middle of his back, but just as my finger slid into the trigger guard I see what is really going on.

The Cloaked man takes up the handle of the cart, the man that was once pulling it now sitting on the back along with the rest of his family. The Cloaked man takes on the burden, without any hesitation or complaint. He just continues walking as if he were on the street for his daily stroll, this great weight he takes up with him a non-existent object. I hesitate…this man. If he is indeed as corrupt as I've been lead to believe then how could he take on the burden of others?

A man corrupted by evil would have walked along, only looking back to see how much they were suffering. But this man…No…His weapon, cloak and suit are enough evidence to see that he is allied with many of our greatest enemies.

The five of them enter my kill zone, only a few more seconds and I can end this...

I place my sights on the Cloaked Man's chest, the darkness of his tie seeming to hide the very center of my crosshairs. I breathe in, the man continuing on as if he were alone with the world.

I let out the breath, the man still plodding along, at peace with the world.

I take another breath, the man has stopped…what has he seen?

I breath out, now ready for my shot…only now do I notice that he is looking up at me, the shadow of his hooded head masking his face…I squeeze the trigger, the great weapon bucking in my grasp, the shell that it fired speeding along at supersonic speed towards its target.

The man, in the barest instant takes hold of the scythe blade with both hands and holds it at an angle from himself, the great slug ricocheting off the soul stealing weapon and blowing a huge hole in the building several meters behind him, the ringing sound of the scythe blade reaching an unnatural pitch. The man tosses up his scythe, catching it by its haft and charging off into one of the buildings, the cart behind him in tow, the family cowering in fear from the echo of the murderous blast from my weapon.

I try to snap off another shot, but the bullet would have torn through his body, killing the family that took shelter behind him. I hold off on the shot, I have to re-position myself so I can make a shot through one of the windows of this Man's new found cover.

I move up to the roof of the building, most of the tiles half crumbled and unstable. I sprint across the roof, jumping as I reach the end, landing on the roof of the building next to mine. This building was under construction at one point, building materials lying about, ruined by the rain and the non-existent sun.

'How did he see me? How…how did he happen to glance up and see me? No…it's more than that.' I thought to myself as I ducked down to the floor below. 'He knew exactly where I was. He must be extremely powerful to be able to sense me from that far away.'

I move to one of the half-built balconies, my rifle trained on the window of the house that the five dissenters took shelter in. Though pane of glass I see the father of the family ducking into another room, but where is the cloaked man? I shift my gaze to peer through another window, still not seeing my adversary.

I stiffen as I feel a presence behind me, a moment later I hear the sound of a pistol hammer being drawn back. I slowly try to turn around, but I stop as the man says: "Stay there, your back towards me."

I stop my turning, the urge to whirl around and confront my opponent suppressed by my want to find a different angle of attack. The man orders: "Now. Drop your rifle. Back towards me three steps and turn around."

I prop my rifle up against the railing, the flimsy construct groaning at the slightest touch…Lord do I hope that it doesn't collapse. I've had to dig that rifle out of so many terrible places and I would rather not have it break on the ground far below. I start pacing backwards, measuring each step, making sure that I can get as close as possible before I turn around. My three steps are up, time to turn.

As I turn around, I see the man, a huge revolver in his left hand. He seems to not have his scythe, the weapon most likely too bulky to use in this confined space. I cannot see his face however, the inside of his cloak so dark it seems to feast on light itself. The only thing I can make out is the reflective surfaces of his shades, the cold gloss of the dark glass hiding his true intentions that lie in his eyes. But I also see him hesitate…it seems that he is taken aback by something. Now is the time to strike!

I unsheathe my sword and I strike at his neck, hoping to resolve the battle in one swift blow. But the stroke never lands, the faint sound of a dying scream and a flash of darkness blocks my blade, bright golden sparks flecking off the blade and scattering through the air, lighting up the room. I jump backwards as the darkness slashes in front of me. Now I see what stopped my blade: His Scythe.

Its blade is as dark and sharp as obsidian, yet stronger than the toughest steel. The whole weapon is evil, and the man that wields it is powerful. I have to play my hand carefully. We stand off from each other, the both of use assessing each other's strengths, predicating each other's attacks, seeking each other's weaknesses. I hold up my sword, placing my hand on the flat of the blade and I whisper a quick prayer to the Holy Steel: "May the light of God purge the wicked and blind my Opposer."

The blade begins to hum and I take up the hilt in both hands and I prepare for my strike. The sword starts glowing, small wisps of steam rising up from the white hot blade. I bring the blade forward, slashing at the air in front of me, a bright flash of light bursting forth as it slices through the air. The light fills every corner of the room, the light is bright enough to bleach the walls of their color slightly. I look away from the unadulterated light of Heaven, knowing that it is indiscriminate in its attack. Just as soon as the light flared up, it was gone, the whole area thrust back into shadow.

I gasp in surprise as I see that my Adversary is still standing, hardly phased by my attack. I take a step back, a question jumping unbidden from my lips: "How…How are you not blinded?!"

The man's hand comes out from the dark folds of his cloak and adjusts his sunglasses, his voice full of mirth as he says: "I don't wear these Shades for fashion, I'll have you know."

He dashes forward, both scythe and Smith & Wesson in hand. He slashes at me, the dark blade rippling through the air, the half-heard sound of the air screaming following in its wake. I duck under the strike and I roll into the next room, a massive slug from the murderous revolver blowing out a huge chunk of the doorframe as I just barely managed to get away.

I sprint to the other side of the room, taking cover behind a large pile of scrap wood and metal parts. I unholster my AutoMag and I rattle of all seven shots as The Man comes into the room. The Shadowy Figure holds up his hand, a deep depression of darkness forming in his palm in an instant. As the bullets cross the room to strike him, he slashes his hand out towards them, not one bullet strike him. He lets his hand drop to his side, the rattle of lead sounds from his feet as all seven slugs fall to the ground, as if they had just been removed from their cartridges. He drops his Smith and Wesson, the weapon smashing into shadows as it touches the floor. He takes hold of the scythe's handles and says coolly: "Lets fight this out. Blade against blade. Light against Shadow. It think it would be more of a fair fight, don't you think?"

I drop my handgun, the heavy caliber weapon clattering to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of wood dust. I bring up my sword and I pace back around the pile of trash, my blade held out in front of me, my whole body tensed to attack. A moment later I realize that he is just analyzing what I am doing. I have to calm down. I let my shoulders slump down slightly and I widen my stance. He shouldn't get me riled up to fight, after all, only the holy survive the darkness. But still he waits, his guard completely down as I approach him. What a cocky bastard! I scream and lunge forwards, the tip of my blade thrust towards his throat.

He skips off to the side, the sword missing him by a couple of centimeters. He slashes with the back end of the scythe, the haft racing towards my head. I bring up my sword and deflect the blade, another great shower of sparks showering from the contact of our contrasting weapons. As his blade comes off of mine I see an opening, but as soon as I consider making a strike he rolls the scythe in his hands and strikes down at me with the blade. I jump back, nearly a second too late as the great, dark blade embeds itself up to its haft in the floorboards.

But as soon as I my feet touch the ground again, he is upon me. He pulls himself along the scythe, flinging his body towards mine, a pair of dirks grasped in his hands. I slash at him, his dirks coming together in an 'X' shape as he catches the blow. He smirks, but he says nothing as he shrugs off my blade and jumps backwards, wrenching his scythe out of the floorboards, the individual slats that make up the floor coming up with the blade. He sheathes his dirks, his scythe back in his hands. 'This man is strong. No wonder he wanted to fight with his blade' I thought to myself: 'But he is still no match for me!'

I nod to myself: 'Yes, I haven't attacked him yet. It is time to show him my true strength.' I charge my enemy, my sword flashing in the half darkness. I throw a few slashes at him, prodding and feeling for how strong his defense is. He takes a half pace back, widening his stance, his scythe flicking out and batting away my blade, again golden sparks flashing away from the blades as they make contact and pull back away from each other.

I jump back as my last strike makes contact with his weapon, aware that he is just baiting me yet again. Not a moment later his Dark Blade makes a wide sweep in front of me, shadows whirling in the wake of the murderous weapon. But as his arms cross over his body, following the sweep of the weapon I see a quick opening.

I rush forward, bounding across the floor with as much speed as I could muster in such a short distance. I decide to make a strike with the pommel of my sword, aiming to knock The Man out or, at the very least, knock off his light-shielding shades. My pommel makes contact, the dull steel striking him in between his eyes, right on the bridge of his nose.

The shades break away, the dark glass shattering from the impact, a small trickle of blood running from his nostrils, the cowl of his cloak sliding back on his head. I see that he has a very thin face, one that could be called somewhat intimidating if it was seen long ago. I also notice the scar running down from his closed left eye, the scar starting just at his eye socket and cutting down and over his jaw…it must have been painful when it happened.

His eyes open up after the impact, my objective to concuss him failed, his balance quickly regained…his eyes…they…their…HIS eyes. Through the pain and slight amount of anger in this man's eyes I could see the deep grey, compassionate eyes that belonged to Him…but who they belong to now make me unsure of who I am really looking at.

I freeze from the shock of seeing those grey eyes, my mind locked on the thoughts of how this could be. The next thing that went through my mind was a flash of pain, the sound of my jaw dislocating with a sickening pop and the feel of his fist pressed against my cheek. After that…Darkness.

* * *

Through the pain, I awoke, a rhythmic thumping in my ear, the feeling of being carried awakening me. My eyes flicker open, the light of day striking my pupils. I see that I am, in fact, being carried. But it is by The Man…but…o' so gentle he carries me, my body cradled to his chest, the thumbing I hear must be the sound of his heartbeat: the sound solid, constant…and…familiar?

I fight through waves of pain to look up at him, surprised to see that he too, is looking down at me. Now I see his eyes more clearly…the anger and pain gone, curiosity in their place…and something new...is it concern…guilt maybe?

The pain takes back over, my mind telling me not to pursue the matter further and to go back to a dreamless sleep against all of my will. But as I slip away, I have no doubt that those are His eyes.

* * *

I awake again, this time for good as the pain from my jaw wakes me up again. My eyes snap open and I see a man wearing a medical mask hovering over me. I sit up quickly, my arm wrapping around the stranger's neck, my every impulse shouting to break his neck.

But my mind registers a preventive sound: A hammer being drawn back on a handgun. The rest of the room finally fills into my vision, the most important part of it being the S&W barrel set in between my eyes. The man behind it gestures for me to lie back down with the weapon:

"Now hold on. If you hurt that man in anyway, I will be forced to shoot you…He is a good friend of mine and he is a doctor. Let him look after you."

I hesitate, the Doctor frozen in my grip, waiting for the next move to be made…this man just wants to help… I have no right to take an innocent's life, no matter who he is allied with. I lay back down, the paper on the medical cot crinkling and folding underneath me. The doctor readjusts his glasses and goes back to prodding at my jaw with gloved hands. He says to me:

"Sorry for any pain that this will cause. I need to set your jaw back into its socket. Now, I won't sugar coat this, but it is not going to be pleasant for you at all. Just hold tight for me."

He places his gloved thumbs in my mouth, the latex taste making me cringe slightly. He presses his thumbs down on my teeth, his palms placed on my chin:

"Now, I am going to count to 3. At two I need you to breathe in sharply. It will help with the pain. 1…2…"

I take my breath, but as the word 'two' leaves his mouth he forces my jaw back into place, a sickening crackle and pop resounding from the violent action. I scream, but only for a bitter moment. I bite down on the howl of pain, not wanting to show my already obvious discomfort anymore.

I get a better look at the room, my pain finally fading away slightly. The room seems to be some sort of medical ward, surprisingly well maintained and well equipped. There are also a few other patients in the room, but they appear to be asleep, bandages wrapped around various parts of their bodies.

Nothing other than the occupants of the room I could not glean any more detail from the room, my vision still blurry from the fading pain…and but not having my glasses on. I roll my jaw a few times, wincing as the pain shoots back from the joint: "Where am I?" I ask: "And can I have my glasses back…I can hardly see…"

Lord, I hate asking for anything…especially from my enemies.

The Shadowy man, Revolver now gone from his grasp, steps forward. He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out my glasses, handing them to me. I take the glasses from his hand, the Doctor saying: "Let me get you some painkillers. Your jaw still needs time to heal, but if it is not too much trouble for you, I think you will still be able to eat as normally as ever."

The man steps away, pacing to the other side of the room, leaning up against the wall, staring off into the distance. It seems that he found a new set of shades, another pair set in front of his eyes, hiding what his eyes really tell about him. The doctor returns, pills and a glass of water in hand: "Here, take these."

I take the items out of his hands, examining the pills closely before I put them in my mouth, drowning them with the water from the cup. The doctor takes the cup and tosses it into the trash, asking the man: "Max. What are we going to do? She is obviously part of The Order. They will be coming for her as soon as they notice that she is missing."

The man waves away the caution: "I know. But I have some questions I have to ask her. Is she okay to move, Robert?"

The doctor, Robert, walks out of the room, sighing: "Then there is no arguing with you. She is okay to move as she pleases, but take care my friend, we have lost too many already."

The Shadowy Man…whose name is Max…Max of all names! The least intimidating and most pathetic name assigned to this man who took me down so easily! The fury of it! There is no way this man could be Him, even if he has His exact eyes. But still…when he was carrying me, the warmth and worry in his eyes…the fact that he carried me all the way here to get my jaw reset…No…he can't be Him. He wouldn't have struck me in the first place.

The man…no, Max, leans off the wall and says to me: "Come on. I have to take that family somewhere safe. And you have to come with me, the people around here are not big fans of The New Order of God, as you call it."

I stand up, but I don't speak. The less he knows about me through my words, the better. In turn have to find out more about this man…maybe…no matter how slim of a chance, he might know of 'My Love.'

The man produces a pair of handcuff from his cloak, the shadows parting as the shiny cuffs came into the light. He moves towards me and says: "I'm sorry about this, but until I know that you bear no further threat to me or the people I watch over, these stay on."

He cinches up the cuffs, the sound of the cuff pins rattling making me flinch…so many years I was bound, sold and made slave to those demented Bandits. He leads me out of the room, the two of us regrouping with that family…but I couldn't help but relive those three years.

* * *

'A thousand,' Said one voice.

'Not on your life,' Said another.

'Come on man, I ain't got more than that.' Said the first

'Bullshit,' Said the second one: "I know you run a bar in this town. You got plenty more to burn."

"Fine," Said the first voice again: "You got me there, no use to haggle any more. How much do you want for her?"

The second voice, with sick glee in his tone, says: "Excellent. I knew that this item was just too much for a man like you to resist!"

"Quite your gloating," The first voice growled: "There must be some catch. Why would you be selling a piece like this? Most people in your position would hold on to something like that."

I lose interest in the conversation. It's not like it isn't the hundredth time I've heard it, I would give anything to never hear it again though. I gasp, the pinch of the shackles binding my ankles and wrists together becoming too much for me to withstand. But as soon as the escape of air leaves my lips a fist lands in my gut, driving the rest of the air out of my lungs.

I fall to the side, trying to catch the breath that was punched from my lungs, but the burlap bag drawn over my head makes it difficult to fill my lungs back up. Even over my labored breathing, I could hear those pigs going back to discussing my price.

The first voice says: "Okay, give a me a rundown on the benefits of buying this girl."

The second voice sighs, obviously more interested in getting money than talking about it: "Since we captured her two years ago she has been a very faithful and loyal servant. She cooks, she cleans and she will do just about anything with a bit of prodding."

I hear a shuffle of footsteps and the burlap cloth is finally drawn from my head, sweet air rushing back into my grateful lungs.

The man continues, the burlap sack hanging down from his hands: "And, as you can see, she is a woman of great, almost angelic beauty."

He stops again, only to yell at me: "What are you doing? Stand up!"

I try to stand up, the shackles slowing my movements, but I collapse back to the ground. I just feel too weak to stand up. The man scowls with anger, and in the next moment a white flame of pain flicks across my cheek as he brings his palm across it. He screams with annoyance: "I said stand up, Bitch! Unless you want to eat tomorrow I suggest you stand up NOW!"

I stand up, at the urging of another slap to the face. 'It's not like you've given me food in the past 5 days anyways.' I thought to myself: 'I am sure today and tomorrow wouldn't been any different.' The other man sighs, as if the whole seen was droll and boring. The man that struck me gestures back to me with a grand flourish: "As I said, she needs prodding every once in a while."

The man saunters over to my so called 'buyer' and leans forward speaking lowly. I can only imagine what he is telling him. I lower my eyes in shame…what that man has done…what he did on that night…I shudder to think about it…no…I just have to not think about it…yes…that's it. I'll just think about how I can escape, about how I will be delivered from this corrupted chunk of Hell.

The two men step away from each other, cash exchanging hands along with a handshake. The paying man's eyes wide and a creepy grin on his face. I pray…I pray to the God above that what he is thinking shall never happen. Just like that, within ten minutes I was sold, just like some candy bar or fast food sandwich. These evil men see another life as valuable as the money that can be made off it. No more, no less. These people deserve to burn in hell!

20 minutes later I was cut from my bounds, only to be tossed in into a pin full of animal shit. My new 'owner' tossing in a shovel, gloating as he strolls away: "Now clean that up! After that you got laundry to do, food to cook, dishes to scrub, a bar floor to clean, drinkers to wait on and so many other things! HA, this is the best purchase I've ever made!"

And so I cleaned, cooked and kept the company of people so drunk they couldn't walk without hanging onto their buddies. So it went like this…for months and months. Every day I thought of taking an easy way out. I was always close to something sharp…yes…all it would take is a quick cut and a few minutes wait and I would be out of this hell hole. But I couldn't do that. I couldn't do that to Him. No matter how small the chance of Him finding out...No, I could never do that to Him.

Without any other choice I continued my servitude, as it could no longer be called something as pleasant sounding as 'work.' Through the pain of the daily beatings and constant harassment I managed to live on.

Then there came time for change.

One day was particularly bad. One of my ribs was broken during my 'master's' rage after I dropped and broke one of his plates. From then on any sort of movement or breath was a spike of sheer agony in my side. But work on I had to. That was the only way I knew I could survive to the next day.

Later that evening, while in delirium from the pain and lack of food, I had a dream.

An Angel of the Lord came to visit me.

He said: "Sister. Why are you so down? Why are you so low to the earth in this state?"

I look up to the visage, awestruck and silent. Wondering what gave me the privilege to be in the presence of such a divine being.

"Why do you sit so solemnly, with pain in your heart and body?"

He reached down, placing a warm and gentle hand on my shoulder: "You have the power, Sister, to rise above this darkness. You are innocent. You are the salt of the earth, Sister. So rise up. The darkness has no power over you unless you give into it. So rise, the Lord's Will is with you."

Then I woke.

Yes. I won't let the darkness control me anymore. It's time for me to rise up.

* * *

I shake the memory from my mind. I can't stand to remember the darkness that came afterwards. The pain and the blood that I shed. I never want to be in that state of mind again.

By now, the man…Max…and the small family and I have entered the sewers, moving along one of the passages, what used to be sewage is now runoff water from the storms that occasionally bombard the town.

I am sitting on the cart, pulled by Max, the family crowded around him, looking at him with gratitude and some sort of silent awe.

Max looks over his shoulder and asks: "You've been pretty quiet since you woke up. Something eating at you?"

I look up, his hood drawn back up over his head. I wonder why he wants to shelter himself in shadow. How could a man as seemingly clement as this man wish to say in darkness?

I say quietly: "I just have nothing to say…"

The man turns back around, continuing to walk along, the cart pulled behind him, the family walking with him: "That's surprising. Considering who you were allied with, I would of thought that you would be berating me with all of that talk of being pure and me being a creature that should be wiped off the face of the earth."

I look down, averting my gaze from his back: 'No point in drawing myself into conversation with him.' I thought: 'I will just wait and see. I need to know if it really is Him…'

The man rounds a corner, the wagon and the family following after him. He sighs in a huff: "Well, I guess I can't make you talk. But I definitely have some questions for you when we get to where we are going."

The father of the family lightly touches Max's shoulder: "Where exactly are we going, Sir Max? We've been in these sewers for about twenty minutes now."

Max continues walking, the light filtering through the storm drains acting like streetlights in this subterranean pathway: "We are heading to my Safe House. There are many other people there, so you won't be alone. Also, there is no need to call me 'Sir'. I'm no knight. I'm just Max, that is all."

The father nods, his last doubt and trouble resolved.

'That is just like something He would say.' I realized with a slight shock: 'There is no way I could have forgotten what he looks like…but I have. How could he look so different from what I pictured of from what little I could remember?'

Soon we approach a dead end in the sewers, a ladder leading up to the surface. Max ties the rope to the first rung of the ladder, turning to the family after he does so: "We are going to have to come back for this later. As of now it might be too dangerous to lug all of this stuff up there right here and now."

I get off the cart, frowning to myself: 'How could he know that it would be dangerous?' I muse: 'It seems that just by going up the ladder we would be in his safe house.'

But the family agrees without speaking a word against their savior.

Max walks over to me, staring down at me as he gets closer. Only now do I realize that my full height is only at his shoulder level...he is exactly the same height as Him.

He pulls back the hood of his cloak, his scarred face coming into view once more. He holds out his hand, saying: "I am going to have to carry you up the ladder. You would just be too slow with those cuffs on."

I scoff: "Then take them off if it's going to be that big of a problem."

Max laughs: "Now she speaks. And no, those are not coming off until I am sure that you are not going to try anything."

I scowl, trying to cross my arms over my chest, the handcuffs stopping me from completing the gesture…so much from making a point: "I'm not going to do anything, you can trust me on that."

He pauses for a moment. He draws out one of his dirks from the inside of his robes, striking the handcuff chains apart: "Eh, that sounds reasonable to me."

I stand, shocked: "Wh-What? Just like that…just like that you believe me…wh-what? I don't understand…there wasn't even a point in putting them on me in the first place!"

Max motions for me to go up the ladder, saying in a coy tone: "What are you going to do anyways? I have your weapons and I would imagine that you won't go far without them. Now go up the ladder, we need to get out of this sewer quickly."

I start to ascend the ladder, asking: "Why's that?"

My question is answered by the sound of a Zed growling from further down the tunnel…This man is nearly uncanny with the calls that he makes…almost like He was before we got separated.

Soon, all of us have clambered up the ladder, the sounds of the demonic creatures rummaging around for us in the dark echoing from the dark abyss below us. Max drags the manhole cover back over the opening, muting the hungry growls from the shambling beings below.

We are now in some dark alleyway, hovering over the closed drain hatch. Max stands up, stern command taken up in his tone now: "I want all of you to stay right behind me. When I motion for you to stop or move somewhere, you do it without hesitation. Do what I say and you all will make it to the Safe House alive."

He moves down the alley, a dirk grasped in his right hand. As per his orders we follow, my handcuff chains rattling and clanking with each step I take alongside the family.

We make it to the end of the dark alley, a small little plaza sitting ahead of us. Max stops just before the shadows of the alley end, me and the family stopping as well.

From here I can see that the plaza was centered on entertainment. Across from our alley I can see what appears to be some sort of theater, the posters for movies withered and falling from their stands. One of the few that I could make out was advertising a movie called 'White Chicks'. Just by looking at the poster I could tell it was once a horrible movie.

But more important to me was the small horde of Abominations in the square. They shamble around, their skin hanging off of their bodies in flaps, huge swaths of their bodies flesh-less. They look just the same as that Demon that tackled down Him, their arms fastened to their waists by a web of leather belts and the sleeves of their strait jackets.

Max moves forwards, hugging the wall as he disappears from sight, a final hand motion telling us to stay put. A moment later one of the shrieking calls of the Abominations rings out, Max obviously spotted. The family edges past me, hoping to get a glimpse at Max somewhere at the front of the sprinting horde. I follow with them, wondering if even he could hope to survive the mass melee of the warped and vicious creatures.

But as we see his dark cloak, the whole horde is wiped down by the spontaneous hail of gunfire coming from the same place that Max was heading. The rounds seemed to blend into one another, the sharp reports from the gunfire blending into a continuous roar from the sheer intensity of the fire.

And in another moment it was over, the abominations dead, small rivers of blood running from the small holes now newly formed in each of their foreheads. Max stands at the fore of the destroyed horde, Five-SeveNs grasped in either hand, the slides racked back as he loaded new magazines into each weapon. The family rushes to him, chattering with excitement at this unreal feat.

I hang back…my eyes wide with surprise as I see a stray shadow flicker around his hands and then disappear: 'This is exactly what He told me about.' I thought in the back of my head as I followed along with the family: 'What he hoped to achieve on that night…so long ago…the powers owned by those 4 terrible Gods…'

Max turns, the family following closely along. He points to the theater, the steel shutters sliding up as he ascends the stairs to the building. He opens the glass doors behind the steel barricade and with a great, half playful flourish, he says: "Welcome to Safe Haven, A place protected by myself and myself alone. The only place lying between the oppressive light and the crushing darkness. A place of pleasant shadow. Welcome…Welcome to your new home."

He tosses a glance over at me, but it was all I could do to not fall to the ground in tears. I amble along, my face as deadpan as I could make it. 'There is no doubt now,' I thought as I step into the building, Max closing the door and following behind me: 'It's Him…I've finally found...Him…'

* * *

Author's Note:

Again: Another Thank You i must give to anyone that reads this story.

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed it and I also hope that you will leave a review for me (Cause, lets face it, i'm not perfect until you guys think i am [Hue, hue, narcissism]). Tell me what i did good, and tell me what i did terribly, because i know i've done both multiple times in this story.

Additionally:

I dedicate this chapter to My Father and My Step GrandFather: Happy Birthday you two, i hope to see you guys again sometime soon! (Its not like they read any of my stuff, but i still mean what i said and I know they support me just the same as they always do.)

I also dedicate this chapter to the Madness: Project Nexus 2 Forums, because today (July 22nd, 2015) is the one year mark of the forum's opening! Good luck to all you guys who have submitted writings alongside mine, Jebs do I know your work is far better than mine and I hope to see you get the first prize in the Writing Thread! Again, Good Luck! :D

Additionally Also:

I have stuff on FictionPress .Net as well, if you guys want to check that stuff out. So far it is just a few of my short stories, but more stuff is going on over there as well. It is all under the same username as i have on this site (Max Shockley), so not to worry about digging through hundreds of others to find your good old Papa Shockley.

Thank you guys and see you again next time!

~Max


	3. ---

This story has been discontinued until further notice

I apologize for any inconvenience this may raise.


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